


Мой Милый

by Arka W (arka_r)



Category: Original Work
Genre: BDSM, Dark Plot, Dystopia, Kinks, M/M, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-02
Updated: 2012-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:20:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arka_r/pseuds/Arka%20W
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coincidental meeting or work of fate? Whichever, Ayame decided to let things roll.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Мой Милый

**Author's Note:**

> First of all... wow, okay, I don't believe I actually write this.
> 
> The setting which this story takes place is Andorria, a roleplay forum for _adults_. It has BDSM. It has slavery. So it's just natural if the story is... dark.
> 
> I'm going to warn you because, seriously, though I don't know on which direction this story might rolls, I'm quite certain it'll be a lot of violence, wild monkey sex without love, without feelings, nothing. So please read with your own risk.
> 
> *Sascha Oumiya is a character of my friend, @[tmahamaya](http://twitter.com/tmahamaya). I don't think my characterization for him fits her, but it's worth a try =w=v
> 
> *Title means My Dear. Crappy title, I know. In Russian because Sascha, as depicted by the author, is half-Russian.
> 
> *Chapter title means Preamble.

Never he feels so alive like this, like the times he stands tall on the Ring, betting his life for a simple amusement—game, as he puts it; hands wet with sweats of nervousness, of excitement, too, in the same time. He can feel the way his heart beats, drumming like marching band in his ears. He can feel the way his lungs draw oxygen in each deep breathes, carrying stench of bloodlust in the air. He can feel every muscles, every tendons, shifting so slightly as he moves his _chuttuval_.

He catches how the spectators roaring his name—cheering him, some taunting him with utterly poor range of swearwords—as he walks in so casually. He waves his hand to them who cheers him, lips curled in lopsided smile.

Then his eyes catch it—The Extra Prize. An escort that’ll be offered to the Winner for one night, whom now sitting almost elegantly on the VIP Seat above, next to the Tournament’s Chairman. Bright red hair—dyed, of course—and milk-white skin that glistens under the spotlight.

Goddess.

He throws mocking salute and confident smirk. Counting from how those eyebrows twitching and how those lips twitching subtly, Ayame knows that _he_ knows he’s observing _him_ —and _he_ is not _pleased_. He laughs it off, then inwardly adds one other reason not to lose tonight.

•

The battle was almost like a child play today. His three-meters two-quintals of his First-Round opponent was turned into a mere scratching post for his _chuttuval_. His Second-Round opponent screamed his defeat within the first minute. As he steps onto the baldy head of his Third-Round opponent, Ayame starts to wonder if the qualification rounds are supposed to be this painfully easy. That, or either the selection juries have gone blind.

He strolls into his chamber provided for him and slumps into a red bean bag couch. Maybe he doesn't need to go that far for his Fifth-Round opponent. _Poor guys_ , Ayame laments. He would be truly regret, if only the last guy didn’t leave a cut on his cheek, Ayame's cheek.

Okay, he mopes over barely a centimeter of scar that didn't even bleed. But this is _his_ face which he truly adores!

The flatscreen attached to the wall flashes and he observes the scoring so far. He's not so surprised to find his name sitting on the very top, though the fact that he got the first rank by merely three points over the second's is somewhat amusing. He reads again the name flashes under his own's: _Ud Lilith_.

Funny. That name rings _something_.

Ayame spells the name several time, as trying to recalling informations buried deep in his mind. It feels like the name rolls around and sending red alert, but wonder _why_? He wonders, too, if 'it' was someone he knew from the past, his enemy once perhaps—which problem is, he made _too many_ enemies he can't recall one by one by their name, neither by their face.

His train of thought skids into a halt when he hears knocking on his door.

He blinks his eyes. Twice. Then absent-mindedly slouching towards the door, hands kept in his side pockets. He dazed for complete five seconds when bright, eye-striking red invades his sight.

“Oh”, he huffs. Right. His _treat_ is standing there, staring _into_ him with those honey eyes. He recognizes instantly, from tittle-tattles spreading inside the Coloseum, as Sascha Oumiya—the Extra Prize’s name, whom considered a top-rate male-escort.

Right, he got the first rank, so that’s literally he’s the winner of the day, correct? So he _has_ rights to have the escort’s company for the night, correct?

His jaw goes slack. Damn, why does his brain decided this is the perfect time to go freeze? Oh damn, oh damn, look at those nice, perfect neck. Also those collarbones. Damn. Why is he (is _he_?) wearing oh so sexy attires as such? With leathers too. Incredibly unfair! Ayame has _weakness_ with leathers, you know.

_Fuck_.

He can already feel blood taking mass-migration towards his groin.

“Nice shoulder blade”, he somehow manages to chime. Oh dear, of all, **_why_** _the shoulder blade, for fuck's sake?!_

__

“Thankies”, Sascha smiles and slides so gracefully into the room. _Thankies_? —hey, when did he—okay, you know what? Whatever, he doesn't mind it anyway.

“As you may aware, I am provided to keep you accompany for one night”, the Redhair continues as he eyeing straight to Ayame, whose still unable to cast his eyes off from how those leathers shape his buttocks so perfectly well, still unable to believe that guy right before his eyes is, undoubtedly, a man.

__

This totally gives him whole new meaning of 'pretty guy'.

“Okay”, Ayame trails behind him, after shutting his door and locking it, like a hungry beast eyeing for its prey. The Redhead shuffles a little under his burning gaze, but doesn't step back.

“What will you have for tonight?” Sascha asks while putting his arms around Ayame’s lithe shoulders, returning his stare with the same intensity. Aw, such bravery.

“I dunno. A bucketful of Nutella ice cream, perhaps", Ayame chirps, still grinning seductively. "Then wild monkey sex. Then more Nutella ice creams and more wild monkey sex. You mind?”

The answer is sharp. “Nope.”

“Good.” So he leans, the Redhead is shorter about a head than him, and presses his lips against those plumpish ones. He gets kisses back, which soon turned into battle of dominance with tongue twirling against another and teeth clashing. It's kind of sloppy, yet still hot.

He taste of bubblegum, which causes weird effect on Ayame's mind. Since now, he guesses, bubblegums are sexy.

“You said ice cream first.” Honey eyes gazes towards his crimson-ones. Lips curl almost into cute pout.

Ayame snorts, holding back laughter. “Yeah, ice cream first, sure thing.” So he pulls back, strolling away, and make call.

•

_Reasons_ why Ayame _adores_ Room Service. Anything he asks, and _zap_ , it's there. Of course there's costs, but oh well... what's the different comparing with actually getting it himself, aside the additional hassles? Ugh.

Ten minutes after, with a bucket of belgium chocolate Haagen-Dazs ice cream (they don't have Nutella flavor for Haagen-Dazs and sadly no Baskin N' Robins Nutella flavor either—but hey, it's a Haagen-Dazs! Who cares) and a pair of spoons, both of them sink into the bean bag couch, which is fortunately enough to hold both of their weights. Yes, one point plus for being Mr. Slender with muscles. At least he's able to have another body sitting over his lap.

Perfect.

The escort scoops him another spoonful and Ayame takes it cheerfully. He lets out appreciative groans and asks wordlessly for another scoop, completely ignoring that kind of irritated glint in those honey eyes.

Ayame had noted inwardly, which, under that professional-escort mask, Sascha might be quite pissed to boot, or disgusted to feed someone like some kind of servants. Rebellious type, huh? Very pretty. That—or perhaps the idea of feeding a client spoonfuls of ice cream is completely horrendous. But, oh, this is very interesting. Maybe Ayame will attempt to find things the Redhead finds irksome.

After three scoops, he gets that kind of glance. Again. Ayame bets his ear that glance means ' _Are you seriously having me to feed you all night and no sex?_ ' and so, he chortles. He chortles even harder when those thin brows furrowing even deeper.

“Eager”, he states, then leans for another lazy kiss.

“You weird”, Sascha shots when they parted for breath. “But good for me. Not everyday I can escape from having sex with pervert oldies.”

“I'm not any of those pervert oldies, hence I'm insulted”, Ayame retorts, somehow manages to make annoyed face. But, wait-- This pulls his string of interest. “Your clients are oldies bunch? Ew, sucks to be you.”

The escort merely shrugs, his shoulder blades convulse beautifully beneath that milk-white skin, one part of his body that's not covered by leathers. “Says one who gets money from body-sparring. From which age are you? Fifteenth century?”

Ayame casually ignores the retort. “Then you've must be happier to have fine man like me as your client”, Ayame cocks one brow upwards and letting his kind of shit-eating grin.

“You’re not client”, he replies, kisses once, and let go, smiling so teasingly. “But close enough.”

They presses their body against each other while their mouth working for another sloppy kiss. Meanwhile, Ayame grows frustrated when he tries to strip the leathers off of the escort’s perfectly slender body. Few straps and buckles fasten the leathers, and Ayame scoffs spitefully. Leathers are nice, but straps are big no-no. They take too much hassles to be undone, especially when his brain is not supportive enough as such moment. Seems to knowing his frustration, the escort lets out light chuckle between their kisses and pries Ayame’s hands away.

When the kisses are not enough anymore, the redheaded escort lurches for Ayame’s jugular and places few nibbles. The latter hisses and manages to get his hands off from the half-hearted grip.

“As for your info, I’m not letting _anyone_ tops me”, he growls.

“Oh, I’m not trying to _top_ you, Mister~” the escort chuckles before throwing that one seductive look. Again. Ugh. “From this position, I think I can give you lapdances, what do you think?” he stops, then leans closer to Ayame’s left ear. “How’d you like me to move?”

His breath tickles and Ayame can feel shivers run down his spines, right towards his crotch. He flicks his eyes and nods, his brain is bolted in place. “Just... move”, he answers.

Light laugh comes from Sascha’s lips; it rings like bell in Ayame’s ear—and the escort starts to move, rotating his hips so painfully slow. In the same time, he deliberately unfastens few straps, one by one, and so excruciatingly slow on the top of that.

“Do you have to move _that_ slow?” the fighter hisses, but he only gets another low chuckles from the escort.

“Eager”, the Redhead purrs, then licks on Ayame’s cheek—place where he got tiny cut earlier. He doesn’t wince, but scowls even more, then latching his lips to the escort’s collarbone. The escort smells like flower— _roses_ , which makes him dizzy and drunk. Yet he still wants for more. He licks, nibbles, and bites greedily, leaving no skin untouched by his tongue.

“I prefer you don’t leave marks”, Sascha warns him, but mewls when his client bites him—hard, oh God, it’ll leave mark, damnit—on one sensitive spot below his collarbone.

The straps are finally off and the escort peels his top clothes off from his skin, revealing his naked torso. Ayame savors the sight of his feast, whom perches on his lap like a feline.

Finally, he is able to touch. To tease. He runs butterfly-touches over the endless milk-white skin, enjoying how it twitches under his touch. Sascha is just like how Ayame imagined: slender, no packs of muscles from overexercised, absolutely woman-like. He bites back laughter and quips, “Imagine I peek down there and find vagina instead of penis.”

What he gets from the remark is simply a silent death stare. It is kinda amusing to see how those thin brows crease and face forming deep scowl. Instead of threatening his life out, Ayame just feels it’s somewhat cute.

So he cranes his neck, craving for another kiss. Craving for _more_.

•

When Ayame picks the ice cream bucket from the floor in the morning, still naked, he swears in combination of three different languages after finding the ice cream is completely melt. That _is_ Haagen-Dazs ice cream. Sucks.

He rolls his eyes and walks to leave the bucket on the sink; he doesn’t feel like to drink down Haagen-Dazs, that’s just pure insult. The escort had already left before he wakes up—and Ayame usually wakes up _early_. They had, as promised, wild monkey sex last night. Repeatedly. On couch. But just that it. Though it’s quite sad they didn’t have chance to exchange sweet good-mornings.

It's half past eleven, almost noon, and Ayame won't have any asses to be kicked until the schedule announced. Considering that he got the best score of all and a winning Champion for five times in row, which makes him, like, the star of the stage, he may have his First Round not very soon enough—if following the rule 'Save the Best for the Last'. This'll make him not-occupied for one week at most.

Good side is, he will have comfy bed to sleep on for one week at least, in a hotel and a master suite on the top of that, and will do so, as he believes, until the end of the tournament—which usually lasts for one month. He also will get paid his share from bets that gamblers had put on him and his money reward, which the amount will surely be extremely pretty. Bad side is, it'll be so excruciatingly boring.

He rummages some few bucks from his jeans that left scattered on the floor, near the couch, and ruffles his black-brown hair, scoffing. Well, at very least, it’ll be enough for another buckets of ice cream. This time, he’ll make sure it’ll be Nutella flavored ice cream.

So he gets dressed up and takes a stroll.

•

If you live your life in a straight path, you wouldn’t choose Andorria as your hometown. Andoria Kingdom is one big mess. It’s horrible. It’s perfect example of a fucking _dystopia_. Human slavery is just one of its biggest national income. Prostitution is just like one kind of entrepreneurship business field. Rebels run wild on its nooks and crannies, like swarming bugs, wreaking havoc here and there, now and then. The politicians and the nobles seemed not giving any _fucks_ of it.

But politics are not Ayame’s subject of interest. This kingdom is corrupt, and so what? Money are so fucking easy to get here, if you strong enough or you have strong backups. The other option is if you have nice body that can sells high, but being a whore, to kneel before another, is against his principle—so Ayame chose to be strong. People _has_ to kneel before him, not another way around.

Being a Tournament participant is literally his main job aside from slouching on the couch with a bowlful of ice cream or Nutella or Nutella ice cream (alternatively, _barrels_ of good drinks—Ayame _loves_ drinks, it’s his main course). While not participating the Tournament, he will usually rove from one bed to another. Switching bedmates is just plain easy as people actually _flocks_ around him—he has his charm and reputation as Tournament Champ, five times in row, thank you very much. Money piled up its way to the sky inside his bank account, but he’d never bother to buy himself a house and _stay_. In fact, he doesn’t have much possessions in hands. Possessions are hassles and it binds him down. He prefers not to be bound.

Ayame decides that he needs his caffeine supply for starter, and because the hotel doesn’t serve triple-cappuccino with vodka, whipped cream, and multi-colored sprinkles on top, his destination would be a local coffee shop downtown. The doorbell chimes as he pushes the glass door and picks a seat randomly—which appears to be next to the glass window. The blond waitress with overused mascara comes and he shoots his order—the triple-cappuccino with whipped cream and multi-colored sprinkles on top, vodka-less because alcohol and morning is not going too friendly for his gastric acid—along with some poptarts and Nutella (yes, duh, he’s _craving_ for Nutella since hell).

He darts his eyes around. The coffee shop is kinda vacant, only few business-looking dudes present, scattering on its corner, either reading newspaper or doing only God knows with their computer tablets. Just then, Ayame realizes it’s about lunchtime on a weekday. Sometimes being jobless tends to make him forget what year it is. Okay, seriously.

His eyes, then, spotted one painfully-bright red hair about five tables before him. He stares, blinks to make sure his vision isn’t disturbed by one thing or another, and stares _again_ until he realizes it is the escort who’d accompanied him last night. Ayame’s brain spins into full rotation as he tries to recall—right, Sascha Oumiya, his name.

The escort, seems so leisure in his turtleneck shirt, is popping chocolate chips muffin bit by bit into his mouth. The process, Ayame thinks, is slightly disturbing in an odd way—the way his cheek puffs, the way he licks bread crumbs off from his fingers or the corner of his lips. Ayame huffs then looks aside—anywhere, as long it’s not to _his_. He finds, finally, that his triple-cappuccino is already served along with Nutella-covered poptarts.

Bless the day.

He carries his tall-glass and his poptart plate and scuffs towards Sascha. By now, Ayame can see the escort is poking his fingers to his iPad. He clears his throat to make his presence clear and smiles— _that_ kind of fake-polite smiles, yes.

Oh how he likes it the way those golden-honey eyes flick to him, undressing him with his sight—stop, Ayame, you’re not getting hard-on like _this_.

“May I join?” he asks, almost too cheerfully.

If the escort refuses, he clearly doesn’t speak it loud, and Ayame actually doesn’t care with _subliminal messages_. Sascha moves his iPad slightly so Ayame can put his Nutella-covered poptarts plate.

Now those eyes are _staring_ into him, as if shouting ‘ _the fuck_?’ and ‘ _really_?’ and ‘ _poptarts_?’

“Ice cream, Nutella, poptarts, and waffles—they’re my main course of food”, Ayame explains then sits on the chair in front of Sascha’s. “Except coffee and beer. I _inhale_ them like oxygen.”

Sascha stays silent, still popping muffin bits and staring for good thirty seconds in complete awkward silent.

“Right, you’re not so chattery today”, Ayame quips before tossing one _whole_ poptart into his mouth. Ahh, the Nutella flavor—it’s very good, it’s utterly _incredible_. Good thing that his mouth has something to do, aside from throwing snide remarks that probably might cause him ended with scratch marks all over his face.

He sees Sascha as one nimble feline, and somehow it fits to many level.

Somehow it is awkward.

Come to think of it, he’d never actually confront his ex-one-night-partner so casually like this. And now he does it, it’s kinda _unnerving_. What are they supposedly to talk about? The sex? Obviously not the weather because _reasons_ , duh. And not talking is awkward. _Silence_ is awkward. Except they do _fun things_ , which is, no matter how _messy_ this country is, still unacceptable to do such _indecent_ in public. He doesn’t know why his feet moves faster than his brain, why he decided it’ll be a good thing to _approach_ the escort. Maybe because he’s so bored to death. Maybe because they had one spectacular night the night before. Mostly, maybe, because the way the escort _eating his fucking muffins is just too damn hot_. Okay, so it’s not actually his feet, but his _dick_ that moves faster than his brain. Damn.

Anyway, Ayame finishes up his poptarts and triple-cappuccino in record time and heaves his ass up. He stares, for about three counts, and Sascha looks at him with unreadable expression, still solemn as ever.

With one swift motion, Ayame brushes light kiss over the bright red hair and leaves.

He needs more Nutella. And Jack Daniels too.

•


End file.
